


Because You Called Me Brilliant

by phipiohsum475



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Omega!Sherlock, professor/student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-20 14:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2432561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John prided himself on his control, and though his subconscious may be betraying him, he resolved that he’d keep his attraction to Sherlock as friendly as he assumed it to be, before the traitorous dreams revealed otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly!) point out my errors!
> 
> I attempted a PWP, but it didn't work. Plot avails!

John stood at the front of the classroom, trying to make himself look busy as students filed in. When he’d accepted Mike’s plea to teach medical research, he’d forgotten that’d he’d grown somewhat older, and in the desert, no less. The youth on the campus seemed foreign to him. He didn’t speak the language nor understand the customs and yet he found himself in a position of authority. Thrust in blindly as though elected the King of the Pygmies based solely on his height (which wasn’t that impressive to begin with).

He leaned lightly on his cane while flipping though his notes, reminding himself once more what topics he’d planned on covering today, and for the rest of the week. He kept on eye on his watch, waiting for the minute hand to stand at attention. At exactly 1500, he stood straight and wrote his name on the whiteboard behind him, _Professor Watson_. That’s what professors did, right? Though those images came from professors writing on blackboards, and so he hoped he’d not out himself as a dinosaur immediately to this flock of natives. He grabbed the attendance sheet. Mike insisted that he take attendance, but as far as John could tell, the professors in the lounge fell into two distinct lines of thought regarding student participation.

He scanned the list, but realized there was no reason to; he wouldn’t recognize any names. He positioned himself in front of the class, a large hall with stadium seating, but it only held twenty students this term. The announcement that Stamford was no longer teaching the course led to a massive drop out, and the class was only taken by those who absolutely needed it to continue their studies.

He introduced himself as Professor Watson, and instructed the students to go around, stating their name and something that might help him remember them better. The students were uninspired. Caleb had two dogs, Megan could whistle bird calls, Darren could recite the alphabet backwards in less than five seconds. It went on like that for a dozen more bland students with uninteresting factoids, until John looked the next student. The boy was younger, much younger than his peers, and John wouldn’t place him any more than sixteen. He had a head of wild, unkempt curls, and spread his long, gangly limbs out over three desks and chairs.

“Sherlock Holmes, and I’m _bored_ ,” He glared at John, as though daring him to comment, “Can I just save you the trouble? The blond next to me is dull, like the rest of these peons, and has failed this class twice already. His dreams started out as physiotherapy, but have dwindled with his disappointments to the ever outstanding physical education teacher. The redhead down the row is cheating on her omega, has been, given the state of her shoes, but it’s fine, since her omega, the brunet next to her, whose face is turning a angry crimson, has been cheating on her with the alpha in the second row. Sally, I believe her name was. And the mousy omega at the end of the row has a secret cat hidden in her dormitory.

“Is that enough to be going on with? Can we move on to something more intelligent?”

John blinked once in surprise, then smoothly chastised, “Mr Holmes, see me after class.” He motioned to the twice-failed blond, “Let’s continue with you, in the red shirt.”

-o-

The class filed out at the end of the hour, while Holmes lay spread out, watching John pick up his materials with the eyes of hawk. John felt his predatory gaze, and steeled himself for a potential Alpha tête–à–tête. The younger ones often bullied about inappropriately, trying to find their place amongst other Alphas.

“Holmes, up here.” John gently ordered, opting for subtle shows of dominance. Holmes jumped up with a manic sort of energy, then smoothly glided down the steps to the front of the room. Holmes approached him, and about ten feet out, his scent hit John.

_Omega_.

John hadn’t even assumed Holmes could be a beta, let alone an omega, with his cocky, bullheaded attitude. The boy exuded alpha in every mannerism and display aside from his scent. His delicious, delightful, fuckable scent. _Shit, scratch that last one_ , John thought.

John reassessed the situation and minimized his dominant traits, before scolding, “Listen, that little display back there was brilliant, but you can’t disrupt the class like that.”

“What?” Holmes’ confusion bordered on cynicism.

“It’s a disruption, to make guesses like that. Upsets the other students.”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“What? How did you-“

Holmes cut him off with lightening quick deductions from shrewd observations, almost all were spot on: soldier, doctor, invalided, here as a favor to Mike. He ended, almost breathlessly, with, “I never _guess_.”

“Brilliant,” John repeated, slightly stunned. “That was, well, extraordinary.”

Holmes’ cynical look returned, and he looked away before muttering, “That’s not what most people say.”

“What do most people say?” John could guess.

“Fuck off.”

John laughed, and Holmes smiled genuinely.

“Reign in the insults, Holmes, but keep that clever head of yours. I could use a challenge.” John dismissed.

“Sherlock.” Holmes said, “Call me Sherlock.”

“Sherlock, then. Off you pop.”

“Laters, Doctor Captain.”

-o-

John found himself enjoying the interjections of the young man in his class over the coming weeks. Sherlock, while abrasive and derisive to the other students, was unerringly accurate, and challenged John as an equal, making him work for his authority in the classroom. In addition to the assignments John gave, he spent extra time anticipating Sherlock’s demands for further information and did his own research outside the classroom to be equal in their battles of wit. At times, an entire class period would be devoted to a stinging debate between professor and student, while the others scrambled to make sense of the complicated topics bandied about between what they soon came to them the Freak and his Pet. John knew the class felt he catered to Sherlock, but truthfully, Sherlock’s questions often naturally led to the next topics John had already planned; to the point where his lesson plan actually included, “Sherlock asks about [topic]” as a the transition between subject matters.

The students in his class found little to complain about, aside from petty gossip. John was a talented story teller, weaving together the history of medical ethics with suspense and drama, leaving no doubt or misunderstanding as to the necessity of medical ethics boards, and the impact their lack had affected so many in the early 20th century. From the Nuremburg Trials to the Tuskegee syphilis study to the lesser known Fernand School using the incentives of a “Science Club” to allow the “feeble-minded” children to become unknowing subjects in radioactive experiments; John highlighted the travesties done in the name of medical science.

After discussing the first chapter of the newest assigned book on the personal and social effects of the lack of medical consent, Sherlock took his time while the other students exited the classroom. John shuffled his notes together, packing his briefcase. He smelled Sherlock before he noticed his approach.

“Sherlock, what can I help you with today?”

“I’ve finished the book you assigned, and was appalled to discover the contamination of HeLa cells is so widespread. I spent all last night trying to determine if my own experiments have been tainted by these cells, and found one that was.” Sherlock pulled a Petri dish out of his satchel. “I’ve isolated the cells, and thought, since I found them cumbersome and meddlesome in my own experiments, that you might be interested in having them, Doctor Captain.”

So much of Sherlock’s explanation was impressive, and John smiled that Sherlock had thought of him for the cells. He felt flattered, mutated cancer cells from Sherlock was like the proverbial apple from any other student.

John stuck out his hand to take the Petri dish, “That’s fantastic, Sherlock. You spent all night on this?”

Sherlock nodded, “It was fascinating.”

“I really appreciate this; but next time, get some sleep. You’ve got a brilliant mind, far beyond more adults, but you’re still an adolescent – you need some sleep. It’ll stunt your growth.”

Sherlock smirked, “I’m already taller than you, Doctor Captain, how much taller do you want me?”

John blushed briefly at the inappropriate thoughts that flashed though his mind, before he trampled them down with self-admonishment. “God, Sherlock, this is fantastic, really. Are you sure you want to give these up? There are so many things you can do with them.”

“I’ve kept a few for further experimentation, but I don’t need them all. Take them.”

“Well, thank you. I really appreciate it,” John went on, teasing with affection, “Look how thoughtful you can be when you aren’t decimating your fellow students with your intellect.”

“They’re just as cruel, but not as clever.” Sherlock answered, darkly.

“Not in my classroom, they won’t be. I won’t stand for it.”

Sherlock smiled again, a half smile John came to realize only occurred during their conversations; never during class. “Thank you, Doctor Captain.”


	2. Chapter 2

John noticed Sherlock’s deference in his class over the next month. Sherlock would begin a scathing assessment of a fellow student, and with a look and raised eyebrows from John, Sherlock would roll his eyes, utter, “Fine” and stop. It was after one of these occasions that the opportunity arose for John to prove to Sherlock he was a man of his word.

“Looks like you got the Freak on a leash,” Sally, the alpha Sherlock called out on his first day, commented, the third time Sherlock tamed his tongue at just a look from John.

Rage flared in John; a protective alpha rage he barely understood, before he tampered it down, and responded levelly, “Sally, you’re in uni. I’m not having petty name calling in my class. You’ve got a problem with another student, handle it like an adult. Ignore him, file a complaint if you feel you’ve been assaulted in anyway, otherwise just _move on_.”

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the involuntary half smile twitch from Sherlock.

After class, John pondered on the rage he’d felt when Sally verbally attacked Sherlock. He’d felt it before, when he’d dated omegas in the past, but he’d never felt it for someone for whom he had a general friendly affection. _And_ , John reassured himself, _friendly affection was all he felt for Sherlock_. The boy was a good ten years his junior, and so though the boy was brilliant, fantastic, challenging and all around wonderful, he simply was not anyone John was allowed to care for, beyond friendly, perhaps brotherly tenderness.

-o-

John’s dreams betrayed him that night, destroying the pretence of friendly attraction. He awoke, sweating, hard, knotted with visions of the young student in his head. Scenting Sherlock, holding him, sliding into the tight heat of his arse, John filling his cloaca over and over again with his hot seed. John cursed himself as he wanked to completion, letting the images from his dream finish him off, then wallowed in his guilt as he made a cup of tea.

The boy, _he was just a boy_ , John reminded himself, didn’t need the lecherous advances from a washed up, injured army professor at least ten years his senior. Sherlock was amazingly intelligent, gorgeous and John was certain he couldn’t be the only one for whom Sherlock’s abrasiveness wasn’t an issue. It just didn’t help that the omega smelled delicious, more so than omegas he’d attempted to date in the past. And betas had little smell, but the sexual differences made partnering with them harder.

John prided himself on his control, and though his subconscious may be betraying him, he resolved that he’d keep his attraction to Sherlock as friendly as he assumed it to be, before the traitorous dreams revealed otherwise.

John resolutely ignored efforts to revise his decision. Sherlock wore tight button down shirts, ruffled his lovely curls when thinking, smirked during their conversations, and John ignored all the signs of his alpha side clamoring to pull Sherlock tight, scent his long, gorgeous neck, and claim him for his own. His dreams continued to be treacherous, and he washed his sheets almost daily, but his outward demeanor remained professional.

-o-

“Doctor Captain?” Sherlock asked, approaching him after another class. John breathed deeply, accidently inhaling the wonderful scent of Sherlock’s omega hormones, and wishing he hadn’t.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I’ve been investigating super tasters since you mentioned it in class. I’m curious to determine if alpha supertasters taste at higher concentrations than beta or omega supertasters. I’ve been conducting an experiment.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve created a consent form, and I’ve already been approved by the university’s ethics board.”

John smiled. He’d finally gotten through to Sherlock, who’d originally believe that the pursuit of scientific inquiry was superior to individual patient consent.

“Excellent, Sherlock. I’m glad. I’ll be happy to participate.”

Sherlock beamed, “Fantastic!” He offered a consent form, and John read it thoroughly, obligated to do so from the perspective of his teachings. He asked questions, demanded explanations of Sherlock of his study design, and generally grilled him on each part of the consent, until Sherlock answered to his satisfaction, as any decent principal investigator should. Once the document was signed, Sherlock circled around John and placed a blindfold over his eyes. John’s cock immediately perked up, and he thought desperate thoughts of his grandmother’s hollow, toothless mouth during her bedtime rituals until the urge to mount Sherlock subsided.

“The consent said nothing about a blindfold.”

“This is a blinded taste test; it is imperative that I minimize bias. Really, Doctor Captain, I’m just following standard research protocols.”

“I’d expect nothing less from you,” John complimented, letting Sherlock guide him to a table and chair; then listened to the quiet rustling as Sherlock set up his experiment in front of him. A few moments of silence, and then John trembled at the touch of Sherlock’s finger to his lips, softly forcing open up his mouth.

“First, the control.” Sherlock spoke quietly into his ear. John savored the morsel of bitter dark chocolate Sherlock slipped between his lips and let it roam around his mouth as it melted. He inhaled, Sherlock hovering so close John could practically taste him; his scent mixed with the luxurious chocolate. John’s prior attempts to tame his arousal faltered for the second time in ten minutes.

“Excellent,” Sherlock exhaled, though John wasn’t entirely sure why. “Onto the samples.”

Sherlock placed each sample tenderly against his lips, waiting for John’s tongue to snake it into his mouth. It felt almost romantic, if medical experiments could be such, and John cursed himself for his lack of control. By the sixth sample Sherlock introduces to his mouth, John was hard and throbbing in his trousers, eagerly anticipating each of young man’s fleeting touches. He’d given up fighting at the fourth sample, and resigned himself to enjoying the contact; not-quite convincing himself that his pleasure stemmed simply from touch starvation and nothing more.

The experiment ended after the ninth sample, when John’s stomach retched at the bitterness and threatened to empty itself on his feet. He was privately relieved for the revulsion; it controlled his erection and arousal, and he was able to regain his composure before Sherlock took off his blindfold.

John dreamt that night of lapping up Sherlock’s slick as it dripped down his fingers.

-o-

Two more weeks passed without incident, unless one called nightly wet dreams “incidents.” Sherlock dazzled in class, annoying his classmates and impressing John. On a drizzly Thursday, the class emptied, Sherlock waving his goodbye with an arrogant wink. John gathered his material, shoving them in his suitcase, and prepared for the long walk back to the tube.

On the way out the door, a flash of blue caught his eye. Sherlock’s scarf lay draped over his empty chair. John picked it up; he’d be sure to return it to Sherlock the following class period. He hung it over his briefcase and made his way out of the building. The wind picked up around him, and the chill of the damp breeze traveled down his spine, sending tendrils of ice down his extremities. He glanced at the scarf, but resisted. It seemed far too intimate to wear Sherlock’s scarf, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.

But the wind persisted, and a slight drizzle fell, and he had several more blocks to go. He draped the scarf around his neck, bringing it up high to cover the lower half of his face. And instantly realized his mistake. The scarf, so close, was drenched in Sherlock’s sweet omega scent. He knew logically he should rip the soft fabric away from his face, but his alpha instincts fought him with each deep breath he took.

His mind swirled with Sherlock, the lithe, gangly boy with the brilliant mind. The intelligent, but caustic commentary and the pale porcelain skin with the dark raven curls. The hard lines of his body, that John dreamed, quite literally, of tracing with the wet tip of his tongue. The tight body underneath expensive linens, the way his buttons quivered under duress when he got excited.

_Fuck_ , John cursed _, he fucking craved Sherlock Holmes._ _Only six more weeks until the end of the course, and then he could cease his completely inappropriate crush on a sixteen year old boy._


	3. Chapter 3

John found himself inexplicably sleeping with the scarf over the weekend, inhaling the scent each night until he fell asleep to more filthy wet dreams. He was sure to wash his own scent off the article and bring it to class the following week to deliver it the object of his questionable affections.

He tried to busy himself with his notes and not notice when Sherlock walked into the class; but failed miserably. As Sherlock opened the door, the breeze from the hall came in with it, wafting Sherlock’s omega fragrance in his direction. John bit back a moan, and hated the instant arousal he felt at the smell. He tampered down his lustful thoughts, and stood straight to deliver the day’s lecture.

When he dismissed the class, he called Sherlock behind again, ignoring the snickers from some of the other students. He pulled the soft sapphire scarf out of his bag, and offered it to the boy. Sherlock took it from him with a smile, and wrapped it around his long, pale neck with thanks. Sherlock rubbed it gently around his neck, apparently reveling in its texture.

John watched, slightly mesmerized by Sherlock’s long fingers and thin arms. He couldn’t help but notice that they were slightly ill-defined in a distinctly adolescent way, and he could imagine how strong and firm they’d be in just a few short years. _Why, oh fucking why, couldn’t Sherlock be bloody eighteen? And not his student. And not smell so damn good._ Sherlock’s eyes flicked open, and John panicked. _Did the scent of his arousal permeate the air? Was his interest evident?_

Sherlock spoke in a deep voice that clearly must have caused ridiculous amounts of cracking through puberty. “Oh! I forgot, Doctor Captain. My brother bought me a new scarf. Same color and everything.” He unwrapped it from around his neck, and placed it onto John’s, “You keep it.”

And with a smirk, he turned on a dime and strode confidently out of the classroom.

-o-

Back in his temporary office, John leaned back in his chair, and took a deep breath. The delicious aroma of Sherlock sent shivers straight to his cock and, without the fear of getting noticed, his cock started to stiffen in his trousers. In disgust, John ripped the scarf off and threw it onto the chair across the desk. He rubbed his temples, and a knock came at the door.

“Come in,” he called, and smiled at the entrance of Mike Stamford.

“Mike! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home?”

“Needed a moment to myself, from the screaming and crying and diapers and spit up. My wife had her day yesterday, and today is mine. Thought I’d check up on my favorite substitute.” Mike went to sit in the chair across the desk and noticed the scarf.

“Ah. Sherlock Holmes. He’s a right nutter, I’ve heard. Driving you around the bend, yet?”

“No, not as such. He can be a right bastard, but he’s brilliant. Keeps me on my toes.”

“Really? The story is he shows up to the first class, insults bloody everyone, then not again until the final. Always aces it.”

“Huh,” John contemplated, “He’s never missed a class. I mean, he can be vicious, but he can be pretty thoughtful. He found some HeLa cells in his own work and brought me a sample,” John motioned to the Petri dish on the corner of his desk, where the cells had already duplicated considerably.

“Gifts?” Mike teased, “If he weren’t an alpha, I’d think he was courting you.”

John stilled. He considered Sherlock’s actions. A gift, the HeLa cells. Providing food; the tasting experiment. Offering a scent item; the scarf, _which he had re-scented before gifting it to him. Oh God, he was being courted by Sherlock._

He looked at Mike in a slight panic, and choked out, “He’s an omega.”

Mike smiled wide and chuckled in sympathy, “Oi, mate, you’ve got yourself an admirer.”

“What do I do, Mike?”

“Well, just ignore it. I’ve always found student’s scents unappetizing, even before I was bonded. Something about them being so… immature, I suppose. And once they’ve left the class, their infatuation typically moves on with them.”

John absentmindedly thanked Mike, but couldn’t help but wonder. Was Sherlock’s scent so attractive because he was mature, was mentally on par with John? Or was John just a horrible person?

-o-

A week passed without a single incident from Sherlock. John sighed in relief. Without these incidences, perhaps his crush would fade. The scent had gone from Sherlock’s scarf, so all temptation, beside the wicked dreams in his head, had deteriorated.

In fact, Sherlock had seemed downright docile for the last week. He scowled just as frequently, and was just as consistently brilliant, but the biting commentary on John’s intelligence and the general derision on the worthiness of his classmates had ceased completely. John actually worried. As a doctor, such sudden changes in behaviors were considered suspicious. He decided that if Sherlock behaved this way for another week, he’d talk to the boy about seeing a doctor for a workup.

After class, Sherlock sullenly plodded out the door. John considered catching up to him, but decided it hadn’t yet been a full two weeks and approaching a student about a potential medical issue might be unseemly, with only minor deviations in behavior. John took his time gathering his items, then grabbed his briefcase in one hand, his cane in the other, and made his way slowly to his office.

When he arrived, he found the door had been jimmied open. His soldier went on alert, dropping the briefcase, and gripping the cane as though ready for an attack. He gently opened the door to his office, all senses heightened. He saw the intruder and relaxed slightly. Sherlock. And then, it hit him, and all Sherlock’s behaviors made sense. In his office, waiting for him, was Sherlock, an omega.

_In heat._

-o-

John’s eyes widened, and instinctually, he made a few steps towards Sherlock before his brain kicked in. He recoiled in horror, “Oh God, Sherlock, you can’t be here.”

“Don’t be absurd, Doctor Captain, I can and want to be here.”

“No, you can’t consent at this age, especially not with me as your professor. This can’t happen.” John pressed himself as close to his door as possible, trying to breathe in the fresh air drifting in from the cracks of the door.

Sherlock stood, and crowded John against the door, offering his neck in submission. The wet, luscious bouquet of Sherlock’s scent overwhelmed his senses and he dug his nails into the back of his hand to ground him and distract his instincts of _fuck.mate.breed._

“Oh fuck, Sherlock. We can’t.” John’s sentences were getting shorter and shorter, as his mind was preoccupied with the fight to maintain coherence before he ravaged the sweet young omega.

“Doctor Captain, I consent. I want you. Fuck me, please. I’m so fucking empty. I need you. Your thick, monstrous alpha cock is the only thing that can sooth me right now. The toys they give us are laughably useless. Please. Please, I want you. Fuck me. Fill me. Fill me full, _please._ ” Sherlock had never begged in his life, and John was sure he was quite out of his mind, and at the mercy of his hormones. He fumbled behind him for the door handle.

With a quick movement, he pushed Sherlock off of him. Sherlock let out an anguished cry at the loss of contact, and John took the opportunity to escape his own office, and then lock the door behind him. Sherlock wailed against the door, pounding in anguish.

John took a few minutes to lean against the locked door and breathe deeply. The pureness of the air outside his office cleared his head in moments, and he went on the hunt for an open computer. Logging in, he searched out Sherlock’s contact information. The primary contact was a brother, Mycroft _. Who the hell named these children?_ John questioned himself, baffled.

He found the number quickly and dialed. A voice, impossibly more posh than Sherlock’s, answered the line.

“Holmes.”

“Is this the contact for Sherlock Holmes?”

A deep sigh preceded the man’s next sentence, “And what has he done now?”

“You’re brother is in heat and tried to present to me. He’s confused. I’ve locked him in my office, but you’ll need to come and get him, or send another omega to fetch him.”

“And you are?”

“Dr. John Watson. I teach his medical ethics course.”

“Ah, yes. Dr Watson. I shall be there as expediently as possible. I trust you can control your urges until them?”

“Yes, I ensure you there will be no problems. I’ll stay outside the office just to ensure no other alphas find him.”

“I appreciate that, Doctor.” Mycroft spoke, and then hung up the line.

John hovered outside the office doors, growling at each student or profession who passed, regardless of their gender. He felt a fierce protectiveness over the boy, even if he weren’t able to act on his instincts. He growled again as a strange man, an impeccably dressed ginger holding a completely unnecessary umbrella, approached him.

The man extended his hand, “Mycroft Holmes. You must be Dr. John Watson.”

“Oh thank God,” John sighed. “Can I see some ID?”

Mycroft flashed a government badge, and John’s tension melted some. He’s in here,” John walked over to his office and unlocked the door, allowing Mycroft entrance. He shut the door behind them rapidly, not wanting to be inundated with the powerful hormones yet again.

He heard raised voices in the room, and then an argument between the brothers. He could tell that Mycroft struggled to be the voice of reason, while Sherlock hollered erratically, and John’s name was mentioned more than once.

After ten minutes of muffled bickering from inside his office, the door opened, and Sherlock preceded Mycroft, hunched over and submissive as he avoided John entirely. Mycroft stopped momentarily and looked intensely at John, as though he was reading every detail of his life.

“Thank you, Dr. Watson, for your integrity in this matter.”

“Of course. Sherlock’s safety is tantamount.”

Mycroft looked at him curiously again, then moved on, to direct Sherlock down the hall.


	4. Chapter 4

“You called my brother?” Sherlock raged at him.

John stumbled back at the sheer force of Sherlock’s anger, but rallied quickly, “Of course I called your bloody brother! You were drunk on hormones; I couldn’t let anyone take advantage of you like that!”

“Why didn’t _you_?”

John raised an eyebrow, “Why didn’t I what?”

“Take advantage of me?! Do you think I was so asinine that I placed myself in your office during my heat on _accident_?”

John reeled at the information. He’d suspected Sherlock had been courting him, but to hear it straight from Sherlock seemed unreal. Why would this gorgeous, clever, fantastic young man even be interested in him?

“Christ, Sherlock, I’m your professor. It’s immoral, illegal, and besides, why the hell would you want a broken ex army doctor? I’m twenty seven with a fucking cane!”

Sherlock stopped suddenly, and asked sincerely, “Is that how you see yourself?”

The change in Sherlock’s demeanor unsettled John, but he answered honestly, “Why wouldn’t I? I can’t be a soldier anymore, I can’t be a doctor. What’s the point of me? Teaching this class has been a good distraction; you’ve been a good distraction, but Christ, Sherlock, why the hell would you want me?”

Sherlock gave him the intense stare he’d grown accustomed to during their acquaintanceship. John felt naked under his stare, but stayed still to allow Sherlock his deductions. Sherlock nodded once, twice, then turned, and exited John’s office in a flurry.

John sat at his desk, slightly stunned at the chaos that had just occurred. What the hell just happened?

-o-

There were limited interactions between the two of them in the following weeks. Sherlock continued to give him thoughtful looks during their classes together, but leaving as soon as class was over. Given that John had no logical reason for Sherlock to stay after class, their interactions were minimized. John finally came to accept that he’d convinced Sherlock that he wasn’t worth Sherlock’s time. He hated himself for feeling more depressed than relieved. And though their interactions had been limited, John’s brain taunted him nightly, dreaming of the scene in his office, dreaming of having less control, of accepting the offer of Sherlock’s heat. Of ripping the clothing off that pale, gorgeous body, lapping the slick from Sherlock’s ready and leaking arse, tasting the sweet tang of arousal, and fucking tight into the young body beneath him. Of having Sherlock whimpering for days underneath him, begging for his cock, of it all being acceptable to ravish the omega that demanded his attentions.

John carried on with his teaching, ignoring the call he felt to embrace Sherlock, to talk to Sherlock, to scent Sherlock during each class. He acted admirably, not once succumbing to his weakness for his young student. He discussed participant coercion, elements of verbal versus written consent, and allocation bias, each time reminding himself the consent that was legally absent between him and his pupil.

The next month, Sherlock missed two class periods, and John knew. John started going to the gym, trying to exhaust his mental facilities so that every waking moment he knew Sherlock was in heat wasn’t preoccupied by thoughts of plowing into Sherlock’s brilliant body. He spent hours tormenting his body, trying not to imagine thoughts of post-knotting conversations. How Sherlock would take one look at him, and just know how to pleasure him, the gorgeous debates they could have, fighting over experiments and viruses living in Petri dishes in random rooms. He didn’t know what it was about the thoughts of Sherlock’s heat that had him thinking so domestically.

He’d spent the last few months imagining consuming Sherlock’s body, but since they’d barely been speaking, all he could think about now was consuming Sherlock’s mind. He dwelt on the conversation he’d had with Mike. He’d asked around since then, and found that Mike was right. Sherlock hadn’t attended any classes more than once other than his own. The other professors abhorred the sight of him; anxious to avoid his acerbic observations. John had already seen the way the other students treated him. He wondered if Sherlock had _any_ friends.

He didn’t quite understand it. How did no one else seem to understand how phenomenal Sherlock was? How did they let their insecurities override his brilliance? How did Sherlock’s lack of social etiquette translate him into a social pariah? He hoped Sherlock’s private life made up for his academic one. Certainly there must be other people like him, who could appreciate the genius for what he was.

-o-

Two weeks after his heat, Sherlock showed up unannounced in John’s office. John opened the door, and stopped cold at the sight of ivory skin, tucked away behind a tight turquoise silk shirt, and covered with his black suit jacket and slacks. Sherlock’s ebony curls cascaded almost into his eyes, and those eyes, those silver green blue gorgeous eyes bored holes into John as John recovered and sat down at the desk.

John gathered himself, and looked back at Sherlock, and tried not to imagine evenings on the sofa, where Sherlock would solve murder mystery shows in the first five minutes, making the boy a cuppa while he bent over his microscope.

“How can I help you today, Sherlock?”

“I thought you might want the results of my earlier research,” Sherlock offered a medical journal to John.

“You’ve been published?” John asked. He thought he should have been surprised, but in truth, he suspected this wasn’t the first article Sherlock had published. “That’s excellent, Sherlock.”

“It hardly takes a genius. You should see some of the drivel that gets published. It’s actually a hobby of mine to write the editors of medical literature to call them out on the worst of the studies.”

John laughed, feeling the awkwardness melt away between them, “God, Sherlock, that’s brilliant. You’re fantastic. I can’t speed read, though; I’ll take this home tonight and let you know what I think next class.”

“Understandable, Doctor Captain. A celebratory chocolate?” Sherlock offered a dark chocolate that John assumed must have been the same chocolates Sherlock had so tenderly pressed against his lips during their experiment. Thankfully, he offered only halfway across the desk, so John took it with his fingers, and didn’t have to concern himself with how hard his dick would be if Sherlock pressed it against his lips like he had before.

John popped the chocolate in his mouth, and asked Sherlock about his other experiments. Sherlock smiled mischievously and rambled on with his current research, offering more details than he’d ever offered before. He explained his hypotheses to John in excessive detail and John furrowed his eyebrows. Sherlock never offered to over explain himself. He always preferred to give minimal details so that his conversational partner had to prove their worth.

John began to ask Sherlock why he was being so helpful, but he found the connection between his mind and his mouth faltering. His face crumpled in confusion, and he laid his hands on the table. He stumbled over his words, “You’re awfully explainy.”

 _Shit_ , John thought _, Sherlock would badger him for that_. But instead, Sherlock smiled and continued his explanation. John struggled to follow the conversation; stringing together the words Sherlock spoke became harder and harder, until he hung his head in bewilderment and shame.

Sherlock reached across the desk to pat John’s hand, “It’s okay, Doctor Captain, just go with it.”

John vaguely recognized that Sherlock’s statement was a confession of sorts, but then his mind slowly dimmed without his permission. His last conscious thought was, “Shit, he didn’t consent me for this experiment.”


	5. Chapter 5

John arose from his stupor blurrily aware of his surroundings. He felt the hard wood under him and on his back; sitting on a chair then. He went to steady himself to discover his arms were restrained behind his back, and his legs were somehow strapped to the chair. He blinked a few times to clear the fog from his eyes and started to focus on his surroundings. He appeared to be in someone’s bedroom. The bed was four posted, drapes of fine fabric hanging from it. The room had an en suite, cherry wood furniture, and old looking paintings in fancy frames. Someplace rich, then. He turned to his left and saw a table full of beakers, Bunsen burners, an expensive microscope, and other miscellaneous chemistry apparatuses. Clever.

Memories started filtering in, and sparse images of Sherlock and luscious sweet dark chocolate on his lips drifted on a breeze through the consciousness of his mind. He licked his lips in memory, and tried to hold onto a train of thought.

He heard the door open and shut behind him. In the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of a turquoise silk shirt, and the memories rushed back to him. Sherlock’s odd behavior, the drugged chocolate, and now his imprisonment. John felt his anger rush to the surface.

“Sherlock, what the hell?!”

“Ah, Doctor Captain. Although, I suppose titles are unnecessary at this point.”

“Why the fuck am I tied to a chair? What did you drug me with?” John turned to shout at his captor, “And why in sweet Jesus are you setting up a video camera?”

“All in good time, John.”

“Sherlock! This isn’t okay! What are you doing?”

Sherlock ignored him for a moment while he tinkered further with the tripod, then turned on him with a predatory smile. “My John,” he cooed, and stood too close for John’s comfort. Sherlock traced the outline of John’s jaw with a long finger, then let the finger drift over John’s bottom lip. John’s anger trampled the urge to let his tongue taste the digit, and he resolutely glared at Sherlock with a deep scowl on his face.

“John, I tried to do this the easy way. If only you had taken me in your office. I begged, John, do you understand how rare that occasion is? Only for you. Only ever for you.” Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s short hair, then straddled his lap.

John bit back a moan at the feel of the omega with the sweetened, citrusy scent clamoring over his legs. Despite his anger, his cock acted of its own accord and slowly throbbed underneath his slacks. Sherlock continued, deliberately wiggling on John’s lap as to stimulate John’s cock, “So, to answer your inquiries in the order presented. You are tied up because my previous attempts to bond with you were unsuccessful. Your morality is stronger than I had expected. Clearly, I needed to reassess my strategy. I drugged you with an MHRA approved drug, I was able to obtain the prescription through minimal deception of a locum doctor; therefore no consent was necessary, as I was not performing any experiment on your person. The video camera is to prove your innocence in this matter. When a fourteen year old omega is bonded in a forced heat, the alpha is typically suspect. I am recording our bonding to ensure there are no misguided attempts by the local authorities, or worse, my meddlesome brother, to dissolve our bond.”

John’s head was swimming with the wealth of information he’d just received. He started with what he believed to be the most obvious. He tried to speak calmly, but the quiver in his voice suggested a sense of urgency to convince Sherlock of the errors of his ways.

“Sherlock, there are different kinds of consent. You tying me down to bond with me is a violation of consent, as I am _not_ consenting to this bonding. Additionally-”

Sherlock interrupted him, “John, those laws only apply to omegas. I’ve tripled checked. There are no laws in England that say an omega can’t force a bond with an alpha, only that an alpha can’t force a bond with an omega. That’s what the cameras are for. I have no desire for our actions tonight to be misinterpreted as a crime. This is all perfectly legal.”

John moved onto the next red flag in the conversation, “But fourteen, did you say you were fucking fourteen?! Christ, Sherlock, I’m thirteen years your senior! You’re just a kid. I’m fucking handicapped. How can you possibly think that I’m a viable choice for mating?”

“I am not a child, John. I am more mature than every student in your class, and they are all legally and morally acceptable. And as for your limp and self perception, this will be the first thing I train out of you once we’ve bonded. This low self esteem is unacceptable. You are fascinating. You are an army doctor. A healer and a killer. You’ve got a psychosomatic limp, you aren’t offended by my personality, you’re a fucking marvel.”

“And exactly how do you think we’ll bond, Sherlock? You’re not in heat and I refuse to bite you.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem.” Sherlock smiled broadly, beaming proudly. “I’ve synthesized a drug that should force my heat. I had considered creating a separate drug to induce your rut, but you taught me that experimentation on subjects who hadn’t consented was illegal. So I’m only experimenting on myself. I’ve heightened the drug to induce a stronger heat than I might otherwise have. The goal is to then let my pheromones trigger your rut. The rope with which you are bound is only strong enough to contain a complacent alpha. Once you’ve entered your rut, the rope should break under your strength, provided that your alpha strength is at least greater than the 25th percentile.

“The rut should allow your instincts to override your moral compulsions, and combined with my induced heat, I fully expect that you’ll knot me almost immediately, and bond with me in the process. I’ve thought this through, John. It has to be you.”

John slumped in his restraints. If everything worked as Sherlock described, it was likely that he’d be bonded to Sherlock against his will. His attraction to Sherlock had always been overshadowed by the impropriety of the relationship, and even faced with the inevitability, John couldn’t imagine giving in to Sherlock and allowing this non-consensual, age-inappropriate bond. Sherlock deserved better, and he was truly too young to understand the long term consequences of bonding at fourteen. John shook his head; why the bloody hell did Sherlock have to be _younger_ than he appeared? If John’s estimate was two years off, why, oh why couldn’t have he been two years older?

With resignation, John asked one last question, in hopes of getting Sherlock to see the errors of his ways, “Sherlock. You could have anyone. Why me?”

“In fourteen years, I have been ridiculed, taunted, beaten, and ostracized for simply being more observant that the average peon. My brother is even smarter than me, thought it pains me to say so, and he never lets me forget it. My parents are ashamed that my behavior doesn’t conform to the rich manners they’d attempted to instill in me. Do you want to know why, John, why I’ve decided that at fourteen, I’ve found my bond mate? Why I would do anything to secure you?”

Sherlock leaned in, his own erection pressing against John’s traitorous one, eliciting a gasp from both, and whispered hotly into his ear, “I want you John. All of you. _Because you called me brilliant_.”


	6. Chapter 6

John paused in his struggles. _Was that all true? Did Sherlock truly feel that alone in the world? Had no one given him the precious compliments he so richly deserved?_ He nearly felt sympathy for the boy, and for a nanosecond, just a single moment, noted that he wanted to take all that pain away and treat Sherlock as the magnificent wonder he was.

Sherlock took John’s obvious distraction to his advantage, and leaned in to kiss the detained doctor. John momentarily relished the lush lips pressed against his own, hot and soft, before his brain caught up and he jerked away. Sherlock licked the taste of John off his lips and sighed.

“Oh, John. I was hoping you would accept our bond without the drugs. I find heat to be quite the irritant. But for you, I can accept the discomforts. I’ve heard that it can even be pleasurable with an alpha present. I suppose that’s another experience I can catalogue for future knowledge.” Sherlock scrambled off John’s lap and over to the table strewn with chemistry equipment. He grabbed a strand of rubber tubing and a syringe of clear liquid. He wrapped the tubing around his bicep with a practiced ease.

John bit his lip, and asked, “How do you know how to do that?”

Sherlock looked John in the eyes, and spoke softly, “You don’t want to know the answer to that question.” He looked away, not wanting to see John’s reaction.

“Christ, Sherlock! Are you a fucking addict?!” John, while alarmed, thought that drug use might explain loads about the situation he was currently in.

“An addict?” Sherlock scoffed, “I am not an addict. I admit I have dabbled in intravenous drug use and I have found a seven percent solution of cocaine to be rather stimulating. Sadly, there is too little in my life which requires that level of stimulation, but I suppose the physician in you is likely glad that I’ve only experienced those heightened senses a handful of times.”

“The physician in me is appalled you ever tried at all! Bloody hell, if you think we’re going to bond, I won’t fucking stand for drugs.”

Sherlock grinned, “Excellent, John, you are already starting to accept our bond.”

John groaned; he hadn’t meant it to sound that way. His mind raced, attempting to find a reason, any reason to get Sherlock to abandon his plot before he injected the drug into his system, starting down a path they from which they couldn’t return. “Your brother!” he shouted, without explanation.

Sherlock knew, of course he did, and replied to the implied defense, “Out of town for the week. My parents are summering in Bar-Le-Duc. Won’t be home for another month. Won’t they be surprised?” He chuckled darkly, and with one last meaningful look at John, slid the needle into his arm and plunged the solution into his vein. “If my calculations are correct, and they always are, I’ll be emitting heat pheromones within twenty minutes. Within thirty, you’ll break through your restraints, and soon, my dearest John, we will be bonded.”

-o-

Sherlock’s scent filled the room. The luscious aroma was unavoidable, and it filled John’s senses at every turn. The earthy tang instantly recalled a scent memory; vivid images of waxy tropical leaves and moist mosses, with just a blush of the citrus he’d smelled earlier. As the hint of lime seemed to etch its way into John’s every cell, he felt his cock swell and a blush spread across his chest.

Sherlock positioned himself on John’s lap again and grabbed his face, peering into John’s eyes. “Excellent, your eyes have already began dilating.” Sherlock shifted awkwardly, but smirked none the less, “And my body has began to produce its own lubrication.”

John wriggled with a grimace underneath him; Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, then opened his eyes wide in realization at the thickness he could feel underneath him. “Feeling uncomfortable, are we?” Sherlock slid off John’s lap and onto his knees in front of him. “Let me help you with that.” John gasped at the image of Sherlock, submissive between his legs. However, from seemingly nowhere, Sherlock pulled a pair of scissors out and began cutting John’s slacks.

“Sherlock, what the hell? Destroying my clothes is hardly the way to-“ John faltered as the cloth fell away, exposing his thick cock. “Sherlock, _please_.” John begged one last time. He knew his time of being able to resist was rapidly diminishing.

Sherlock grinned mischievously, “Please? Please relieve you of the rest of this constricting clothing?”

“Fuck no, Sherlock, fuck!” John cried out as Sherlock stripped the pants and shirt off him. He felt his resolve begin to weaken, as his cock jutted up proudly ready despite his brain.

Sherlock blinked twice as he gazed upon John’s bare form. “John. I, that is, you, uh, I find you more aesthetically pleasing than I had, um-“ Sherlock gulped, and his hands seemed to unconsciously paw at his shirt buttons. John watched clearly as Sherlock began to succumb to the hormones that he’d deliberately instigated.

John found his words escaping him as his rut began to overcome his conscious thoughts. He simply drank in the sight of Sherlock disrobing, scraping off his clothing as though it ached to wear. John supposed for an omega in heat, that might be true. He tried to consume the vision of Sherlock’s delicious, pale, lean body, and the way John started to see the sheen of sweet slick trickle down his thighs.

_God, he wanted to lick Sherlock’s juices up his thighs and delve into that tight little hole, sucking the- shit_ , John swore, _he was close to losing himself._

Sherlock began to tremble once nude, and offering, in his weakened state, “John, I hate this part. Please, John, make it better.”

“Restraints.” John could barely form a sentence in the haze of pheromones.

Sherlock made to cut John’s ties, but stopped. “No, you’ll leave. You don’t want me. I have to wait.”

“Christ, Sherlock. Want you. Crave you. Dream every night. Fucking brilliant. Gorgeous. Let me lick you. Fuck you. Fill you.” And John was gone, a slave to his biology.

Sherlock groaned, and John watched another wave of his juices drip down legs. John growled, and Sherlock dimly and slowly made the connection. He straddled John’s lap one last time, his drenched backside sliding against John’s throbbing arousal. John struggled hard against his bindings; he was so close to having, taking, mounting, breeding his omega. _His omega_. John had given up. He would have Sherlock. Sherlock would be _his_. Sherlock dragged his fingers through the slippery lubricant his body was producing in copious amounts. “You crave my scent, John? I imagine I taste even better.” And he presented his dripping fingers to John, who opened his mouth involuntarily to accept the offering.

The taste exploded all John’s senses in one glorious detonation of rutting alpha lust. The taste, the scent, the feel, the look, and oh god, the sounds that Sherlock was making burst outwards from John’s chest and radiated through each of his limbs and down to his fingertips. With one strong flex, John burst from the ropes holding him prisoner and he lifted Sherlock up in his arms as he stood. He snarled, one short, binding word, “Mine” and launched them towards the silk sheets in a fury.

_Fuck. Breed. Mate._


	7. Chapter 7

John aggressively mauled Sherlock’s mouth, with teeth and tongue too rough to be called a kiss. John savored the taste of Sherlock, not unlike the gorgeous scent the omega emitted as his pheromones filled the air. John slipped his tongue into the boy’s mouth amid the bites, tasting the omega sweetness that sent John’s alpha into further fits.

He flipped Sherlock onto his flat white belly, taut and strong, but only beginning to have the sinewy strength of a man. John savored the muscles flexing in Sherlock’s back as the boy writhed under his administrations, and bit wet marks on Sherlock’s shoulders and down the sides of his spine. The alpha in John demanded he plunge into Sherlock’s sopping omega arse, fast and hard, consequences be damned, but enough of John’s consciousness existed to deny the urge. Sherlock was young ( _too young_ , his brain protested, and his body ignored) and had not yet shared a heat. Biologically, Sherlock should be physically able to withstand a rutting alpha, but that didn’t mean the viciousness would be comfortable during his first heat. Sherlock, despite his aggressiveness, despite his complete lack of concern for John’s consent, needed love and comfort, tenderness and consideration. He needed the soft touch of someone who cared, who appreciated his brilliance as well as his body. John opted for gentility.

He began by dipping his head to Sherlock’s thighs, licking the sweet juices from the boy’s legs, sucking bruising kisses onto his thighs, while Sherlock preened and gasped. His tongue made its way from Sherlock’s knees, to his inner thighs, up to the gorgeous loosening pucker that leaked the deliciously earthy fluids. John placed his hands on Sherlock’s pale white arse, pulling the cheeks apart to allow access to what John most craved. He plunged his tongue into the hole, and Sherlock shrieked, squealing with bliss while trying to remain still enough to allow John access.

Once pleased with how well Sherlock appeared opened underneath him, John lined up his aching cock to Sherlock’s arse; John’s arousal red and angry for release, and, gripping tight on Sherlock’s hips, began to breech Sherlock slowly. Painfully slow. Every cell in John’s body screamed to shove deep and fast, but he abstained, trying to take pleasure in watching Sherlock’s arse open wide around his thick cock, accepting the intrusion with a gripping pleasure. Sherlock slumped underneath him, sighing his pleasure as John invaded his body. The boy’s relaxation made the intrusion easier, and John slid in, inch by inch, feeling the warmth and slick and ridges of Sherlock’s arse, then even silkier texture as he slid into Sherlock’s cloaca. Once fully seated, John paused, the unbelievable heat from the omega radiating in a way John had long since forgotten.

John could resist the call of his alpha no more. John pulled out until just the head of his cock remained embedded in Sherlock, and thrust back with force that nearly slammed Sherlock into the headboard. Sherlock cried out, moaning in encouragement, begging John, “More, John, please, more!” John obeyed the demands of the omega thrashing in need beneath him. He pulled Sherlock onto himself, filling the boy bollocks deep over and over as he chased his release.

John babbled back, “Fucking amazing, Sherlock. You’re goddamned fantastic. Fucking made for me, you brilliant boy.”

As he neared, one hand left Sherlock’s hip and gripped the raven curls, and yanked the boy onto his knees. Sherlock cried out, startled, then his cries evolved into an evoking groan, as his cock pulsated out his climax in short streaks on the bed cloths below. Pleasure tingled down John’s spine, from his ears to his cock, where Sherlock’s arse clasped tightly, and John’s alpha demanded he reduce Sherlock into a babbling quiver. They both muttered sweet nothings intermingled with filthy curses, neither aware of his own words. John hooked his arms under Sherlock’s, then clenched the boy’s shoulders forcefully as he drove himself upwards into the tight heat, Sherlock’s slick dripping off him and down John’s bollocks, down his thighs, and drenching the sheets beneath them.

With a sudden rush, John realized his orgasm was forthcoming, and he impaled Sherlock harder and faster, working his growing knot into the boy’s welcoming hole with strength John hadn’t know was possible. Sherlock cried out as the knot rubbed in and out of his sensitive flesh, catching painfully, wonderfully on the rim of his abused hole. Finally, John’s knot fully formed, and he plunged one last time into Sherlock, locking them together. John’s cock began to pulse thick, copious amount of come into Sherlock’s cloaca; John’s alpha instincts bellowing _BreedMateBreedMate_ in overpowering form. He snarled, obeyed, and viciously sank his teeth into Sherlock’s neck, puncturing the flesh and the gland underneath, claiming, finally, Sherlock as _his_ , as _his own_ , as _his_ _omega_.

Sherlock screeched, the pain of the bite combining with the pleasure of the bond forming from the perforated gland releasing yet another wave of ecstasy from his body, further spurring on John’s own elation. John’s body released further throbs of ejaculate into Sherlock’s sealed body, six, seven, eight times, and then they collapsed, spent from endorphins, onto the bed.

For several moments, the only sounds in the room were the heavy, wheezing pants of a boy and his successfully seduced professor. John rolled he and Sherlock to their sides for comfort, out of the dampness of Sherlock’s release to the other side of the bed. John draped an arm around Sherlock, resigned to being knotted for anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes. Bonding knots were known to last longer, and he couldn’t be sure of the time frame. As the alpha instinct recessed and John regained partial awareness, he complimented, “That was… brilliant.” Then his voice took on a scornful note, “And goddamn you, Sherlock, for making it so.”

“John. My John. It’s done. You have done nothing wrong and now I am yours,” Sherlock reassured him. “All that longing, those dreams you’ve been having, yes, I know about the dreams, it’s all yours now.”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. It doesn’t make it right. I have dreamt of you, you know that, I have wanted you. But I wanted you older. Legal. I wanted us to be consensual.”

“If I had waited four years, you might have found someone else. I couldn’t take that risk. You’re mine now.” Sherlock’s voice waivered, as though he wasn’t quite sure about that last point.

“Yes, Sherlock, I’m yours,” John comforted. “I won’t petition to dissolve the bond. You are fantastic, and extraordinary, and if it weren’t for your age, I would have pursued you long ago. But dammit, I’m going to fucking punish you during your next heat.”

“Why wait? I’d rather you punish me now,” John could both hear and feel Sherlock’s smirk. “I appreciate your tenderness for the bonding, but I’d really liked to be fucked properly for the rest of this.”

With a soft growl, John acquiesced, “Good. Then I’ll do just that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue will follow!


	8. Chapter 8

John spent three days devouring Sherlock, who greedily accepted his attentions.

“Fuck me, John, harder! Bite me again, make it bleed. God, I want it to hurt.”

“Christ, you wanton little masochist, I’ll tear you apart so beautifully.”

-o-

“Dammit Sherlock, you’ve got to stop begging me to hurt you. You’ve got great bloody bite marks like a collar around your neck.”

“Excellent. Why would I stop?”

-0-

“Good boy, I’m gonna fill you so full you’ll leak my come for days, my sweet, gorgeous boy.”

“Yes, please, sir, my alpha, fuck, knot me, please, knot me knot me, oh fuck Oh FU-“

-o-

“Sherlock, you’ve taken birth control, right?”

“Really, John?”

“Yes.”

“Ugh. Yes.”

-o-

“Oh, hell, John, it’s starting again. I can barely move, I need you.”

“Bloody buggering fuck, Sherlock. Did you have to make the injection so damn strong?!”

“Yes. I needed to make sure you couldn’t resist me. If you had just fucked me when I asked, we wouldn’t be having this problem. Please remember this the next time I request your assistance.”

“ _Assistance_? This is not _assistance_. God, Sherlock, just roll on your side, my arms can’t hold me up anymore.”

-o-

John awoke, still naked, still smeared in his own come and Sherlock’s slick, and yet again tied to a chair. He groaned, but didn’t try in the slightest to test his restraints; his body too weak from Sherlock’s intense needs. He opened his eyes, and took in his surroundings. Windowless, but carpeted. Obvious support beams, so basement, despite the ornate table and chairs to his left, one of which was missing; he assumed he was currently tied to it. John saw a wet bar, in a classic style. The richness of the room suggested he might still be in Sherlock’s estate, although it might be possible he’d been moved to another manor.

He heard footsteps coming down the stairs, with the added thunk of a cane. Slowly, the luxurious form of Sherlock’s brother (Mycroft?) came into view, the cane revealed to be an umbrella. _Did he carry that everywhere?_

“Dr. Watson,” the elder Holmes addressed him dryly. “Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock’s elder brother, should you have forgotten.”

“No, can’t have forgotten you,” John mocked.

“Yes. Well. It seems that my prior assessment of your morality was ill informed.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Have you even spoken to your brother?”

“Unnecessary. One of two things is true in this scenario. Either, you have taken advantage of my brother’s tolerance of you, or he has taken advantage of your tolerance of him. If it is the latter, then, knowing my brother, there will be evidence eliminating your culpability. A video, I expect.”

“And I could show you, but I appear to be _bloody tied to a bloody fucking chair_!”

“The video, should it exist, will surface soon. Let us discuss your intentions with my brother.”

“I think it’s pretty obvious at this point, don’t you?”

“If my brother has influenced you, I can have the petition to dissolve your bond complete and approved by tomorrow.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

Mycroft’s face flickered, the first true emotion John saw flash across the stiff man’s face. He suddenly understood just a bit more about Sherlock.

“You don’t believe me.” John accused.

“Fourteen years worth the experience would suggest otherwise.”

“Fourteen years worth the people are idiots,” John smirked, thinking fondly of his bond mate.

A voice rang out from the top of the stairs, “Mycroft, you fat git! Give me back my bond mate! He’s mine!” Sherlock stampeded down the steps and thrust his hand out in Mycroft’s direction, “Here’s the video. I’m sure that’s why you kidnapped him. To see if you should kill him to protect the honor of your property. I am not a _thing you own_ , Mycroft. I can make my own damned decisions.” Sherlock sneered at Mycroft, then strode confidently to John and used a blade to slice through John’s restraints.

John smiled and spoke softly to Sherlock, “Is this a thing with you Holmes? Kidnapping and restraints?”

Sherlock laughed, then pressed a gentle kiss to his temple, “You must admit, my version is far superior.”

-o-

Aside from the obvious bond, Sherlock’s plan had other benefits. He’d deliberated waited until after class on Thursday, so they could share Sherlock’s heat over the weekend, and have John back, ready to teach, on Tuesday.

However, John had to be ready to teach _on Tuesday_. One day after the end of Sherlock’s heat. After being kidnapped by Sherlock’s brother. Of their scents comingling in the most obvious of ways. After leaving a ring of ravaging bite marks around Sherlock’s neck, and receiving one or two of his own.

John wasn’t actually looking forward to class at all. He’d have to register their bond with the school, despite being a temporary professor. The students would accuse him of favoritism, although he couldn’t possibly understand how, given the contrast between Sherlock’s intelligence and their own.

He arrived early to register the bond at the office of Student Affairs. The registrar choked on her coffee when he revealed the name of his bond mate; apparently, Sherlock had quite the reputation. Once he’d assured the woman of his sincerity, he moved onto the dreaded task of facing his other students.

John’s scent was noticeably different, but far away at the front of the class, he avoided any awkward looks by the students who filed in. It wasn’t until Sherlock flounced in, loudly and attracting attention, that the class stilled. Sally, the alpha he’d offended the first day, took in Sherlock’s new scent and bite marks, and spoke disgustedly, “The freak bonded? Jesus, who would want to mate with that?”

John felt the same rage he’d felt the first time he’d defended Sherlock, and as he spoke, heads whipped in his direction, “I would. And I’ll thank you not to speak of my bond mate that way.” Alpha protective pheromones poured from his person, and the whole class, save Sherlock, shrunk submissively under their strength, even as they gaped at him in disbelief.

John looked to Sherlock, to ensure he hadn’t been unduly affected by Sally’s harsh words.

But Sherlock met his eyes, and beamed.

-o-

When class finished, the students filed out after an especially somber discussion; John’s protective scent emitted for at least half the period, until he felt reasonably sure that they knew Sherlock was, in all forms, off limits. The pheromones completed subdued the class.

Sherlock came up and gave him a deep kiss before announcing he’d be at the chemistry lab until dinner. “Italian?” he asked, not waiting for the answer before rushing out the door.

John smiled at Sherlock’s enthusiasm; a force unmatched in any topic he held interest. He finished gathering his materials when the door opened again.

A man, older than the average student, and too confident to be a student, came down the aisle and addressed him, “Dr. John Watson?”

“Yes, can I help you?” John stopped packing up, and addressed the man politely.

“I’m Sergeant Greg Lestrade. Can we talk?”

“Uh, sure, what about?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” The sergeant looked deadly serious.

“Oh Christ, what has he done now?” John asked, exasperated.

The sergeant looked at him closely with a scrunched brow, “He’s fine. Can you come to down to the station with me, so I can ask you a few questions?”

John felt his features contort into the same concerned look the sergeant wore, “What is this about?”

“His bond.”

“Oh god, not you, too,” John rolled his eyes, and resumed putting the last of his papers in his case.

Whatever reaction the sergeant was expecting, that was not it. He asked warily, “Who else have you spoken with?”

“The elder Holmes. Mycroft, if you’re familiar,” John replied, taking a small memory drive from the case before closing it up, and passing it to the sergeant. “Here, this should give you all the information you need.” John had to hand it to Sherlock; the video feed of their bond really did make this whole process of questioning much smoother. Although he was slightly mortified that such a young, thin omega could capture him, he remained grateful for the proof that he had done nothing untoward, and in fact, could be declared quite honorable in the whole situation.

It was actually rather perfect, he thought; John had everything of which he had hoped and dreamed in a bond, and completely guilt free. He rather suspected Sherlock might have been plotting this from that first day, eking his way into John’s life, with John being none the wiser, from the day he first noticed Sherlock, smiled at the clever boy, and called him ‘brilliant’.


End file.
